Complex Stories
by IMSLES
Summary: Winner of the NFA The House That Gibbs Built challenge.  The lives of the tenants in one apartment building lead to the telling of different tales.


DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN NCIS OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS

Complex Stories

From my first floor apartment I had a clear view of all the comings and goings of my neighbors. Often I'd observe more than they meant to reveal. Most of the time, they were unaware of my presence. I rarely left the safety of my quarters. My virtual obscurity made them careless at times.

I'd overhear conversations or words uttered not meant for others to hear. I could honestly say that only one knew them better than I, Timothy McGee, AKA Thom E. Gemcity, author. That one would be Leroy Jethro Gibbs, owner, superintendent and landlord of this self-built establishment.

I had never found proof, but more than one of my novels hinted at the possibility that his divine knowledge came from his ability to move about this complex with the stealth enviable of a cheetah. I surmised this was achieved by secret passages and hidden cameras and microphones.

He was even more hidden from view than I. The rare appearances occurring only when emergencies arose. All the day to day maintenance seemed to be completed without anyone seeing him. There was talk that he worked at night while everyone was presumably asleep.

Presumably everyone accept the 'Mistress of the Dark' in Apartment 2A, Abigail Sciuto. She slept during the day and left when darkness fell. She always dressed in black, matching her oft worn pig-tailed hair. Her long cape draped around her shoulders as she appeared to float down the steps into the night. None of the others knew where she went or what she did. They all speculated that the Goth clad young woman could actually be a vampiress. I knew she was a scientist who worked in a lab.

I would shake my head at such nonsense. Though it did give me fodder for a scenario of Abby's lair containing old world antiques and her bedroom centering around a shiny black, satin filled coffin.

I took that scenario and created a best seller, 'Come Into My Chamber'. In that tale she, as a vampiress, had lured a lonely writer from his isolation and turned him into her lover and partner. Together they preyed upon the unsuspecting tenants that resided in their apartment complex.

They went undetected for years taking victims sporadically, until they met their demise at the hands of Le Jet, the vampire hunter, who hand crafted the wooden stakes that pierced their hearts and ended their tryst and reign of terror.

I smiled. Living here was certainly good for my career. Being an introvert was the perfect cover for collecting details for my characters. My neighbors provided a plethora of ideas for me to thrust them into the world of my imaginings.

Donald Mallard resided across the hall from me. He spent most of his retired days sitting out front on the stoop. He regaled the youngsters of the neighborhood with stories of his own. I envied his ability to retell so many memories in a fashion befitting of a Renaissance man.

Many of his stories centered around death and I felt pity for him. So much tragedy should never be witnessed by any one person, unless he or she was a medical examiner or funeral director.

He became the focus for the main character in my novel, 'I Remember When'. A saga of a man's life's journey from Scotland as a young man on the cusp of adulthood to America and his adventures in his career as a funeral director.

His business was booming due in large part to a mysterious string of murders attributed to a killer known as the Sawdust Stalker, because the only evidence ever found was a dusting of sawdust around the victims and their homes. The victims were all found with broken necks.

It was his own observations that brought the murderer to light. He recalled a similar case from his homeland. The guilty man was a mariner trained as a young man by the military. His own life was spared by his assistant who stumbled upon the stalker knocking him unconscious as he had his hands around the funeral director's neck.

Our most recent tenant, Jimmy Palmer was a rather nerdy looking college student. He tried to hold conversations, but was easily flustered because of his shy nature. He seemed to be able to talk best with the tenant across the hall from him, Anthony DiNozzo.

I did manage to discover that Jimmy was majoring in science and was considering going into medicine if he could get into a decent program.

His lack of social skills made me think he'd be better off if his patients were already dead. This set my imagination into motion and he became the main character in my book, 'Under the Knife'. It told the story of a morgue technician who performed plastic surgery on the deceased. He was able to successfully alter their appearances into those of famous people.

He was hired by a certain nefarious drug dealer to create a look alike of him, so that the authorities would think he was no longer alive and he could escape.

Though the procedure was successful the drug dealer suffered his own demise when his chartered plane crashed into the ocean. It was never determined if the crash was due to sabotage or mechanical failure.

Now that Anthony, call me Tony, DiNozzo. He's a police officer waiting to turn detective. He has his exam next week from what I've heard him telling just about everybody.

He's extremely cocky and quite forward with the women around. I'm amazed that most of them haven't slapped him across the face. Instead they seem to fawn over him, glad to be targeted by his advances. There have been countless conquests that have left his place during the early morning hours. I can only shake my head.

Of course this James Bond wannabe made for an interesting character. I wrote 'The Wrong Women, The Wrong Time' featuring him as the main character. A law enforcement official who finds himself the target of a female serial killer.

Tony's character inadvertently brings the woman home. She leads him on and almost succeeds in killing him. He saves himself by pure dumb luck when he burns his tongue on a slice of pizza and jumps off the couch to get a cold drink just as she plunges a knife into the space he evacuated. His quick reflexes prevent a second attack and he's able to cuff her without further incident.

My most exotic story featured Ziva David who lives on the floor above mine. I adore her though she's far out of my league. She seems to be alone in this world, but very refined. She's alert of everything that goes on around her; I wonder if she's onto my existence here and what I've been up to.

Her daily activities are a mystery to me, though I do know she is home every night. No clues have been dropped to help me figure her out.

I dream of her, not always in a romantic way. Some times I see her as a CIA or other undercover operative, living in secrecy. From these musings I created 'Dark Lady' which spun the tale of a woman taken from her family as a young girl and raised to be a hired killer for a secret government bent on taking out its adversaries.

She was successful until she met a young man whom she was ordered to kill because of his editorial pieces were coming to close to exposing them to the world. When she looked into his soulful green eyes she turned her back on all she'd ever known. They both escaped to begin a new life together. He left behind only his final article that ended the careers of the corrupt government officials.

Sitting back in my chair I grin. I have it quite made living here. Now if I could only conjure up a character encompassing the elusive Mr. Gibbs. I smirk, 'Wouldn't he be the perfect boss. Handing out assignments and leaving the work to be done by his underlings.'

I rethink this. 'No. I think he'd tend to be more hands on and in their faces. He'd want the work done and done to his satisfaction. Yeah it would be a great story. Who knows maybe I could fit all the other tenants in as his coworkers, or his agents.' I think I got it. 'They could all be crime solvers. There must be some elusive group not many have heard of. Thinking of my father in the navy it comes to me. Oh yeah. If I write it well enough, maybe they will make my novel into a movie. Maybe even a television series.'

Grabbing a piece of paper and rolling it into my typewriter I begin the next best seller, 'NCIS: Naval Criminal Investigation Services, The Case of the Missing Petty Officer.'


End file.
